


The Worst Night

by hannigramcracker



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Character, Sickfic, Vomiting, puke without plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 17:54:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8023465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannigramcracker/pseuds/hannigramcracker
Summary: When Dick starts to feel sick, he thinks he can make it through patrol with Bruce. How wrong he was... 
Really, how could this night get any worse?





	The Worst Night

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends! It has been a while since I've written a solo fic, and here it is. A self-indulgent, gratuitous sickfic. Enjoy!
> 
> Also, I know this is listed under relationship and also platonic, because really this can be read either way.

Dick wished he had listened to his gut earlier. 

 

Literally. 

 

He'd woken up that day with a slightly off feeling in his stomach but wrote it off as not getting enough sleep, not drinking enough water, not eating enough the night before. He wrote it off as anything except what it was. By mid-day there was no escaping the fact that his stomach  _ hurt.  _ Every so often, he would move the wrong way and the muscles in his abdomen would tighten - he began to think maybe he had pulled something during training. 

 

But by dinner, it was clear that this wasn't the case. He forced himself to scarf down as much food as his unhappy insides would allow him to - he didn't want Alfred to get suspicious. He had to go on patrol with Bruce tonight, and he knew that if he didn't eat that would be out of the question. Somewhere in his mind he knew Bruce wouldn't be upset if he cancelled on patrol for not feeling well, but that was a conversation he didn't feel like having. Bruce would worry, possibly not go on patrol because of him, or task Alfred with taking care of him. Dick didn't want to be responsible for any crime going unstopped, much less have someone be responsible for taking care of a silly stomach ache. 

 

So, he forced himself to drink a few glasses of water in hopes that they would calm his stomach. They didn't seem to do the trick - unless the trick was making him undoubtedly nauseous. Yet, he ignored the slight gurgles coming from his middle and tried to stifle burp after burp as he slid into his costume. His skin was alarmingly clammy causing the fabric to pull and stick in places he usually had no trouble with. Slowly, he stopped down to pull the bunching fabric up over his knees, wincing and barely holding back a groan as he bent at the waist. He stood up quickly to offset the pain, too quickly, and was met with a terrifying wave of dizziness that was almost enough to actually knock him off his feet. 

 

Maybe he should tell Bruce he couldn't come out tonight. He wouldn't be much help like this, maybe he should just - 

 

“Dick!” Bruce’s voice came echoing into the room he was changing in. It filtered in to his head that he hadn't realized was aching until right that moment. “Are you ready?” 

 

Dick steeled himself, decided it was too late to bail, and forced himself to answer Bruce, bracing for an uncomfortable and hopefully uneventful evening, if he was lucky. 

 

Which, of course, he wasn't. 

 

Dick wasn't really quite sure how, but he made it to the city on his bike in one piece. He was silently proud of himself for that, even if each turn he took left him swaying nauseatingly. He was more than happy to park his bike and crouch on a rooftop, hoping that squeezing his muscles together would give him some temporary relief. 

 

After about a half hour of silently staking out the perimeter of the city and taking inventory, nothing of consequence had happened. Nothing except the vague nauseous feeling in his stomach had begun to burn and blossom it's way up into his chest, filling his mouth with thick saliva from time to time. Each time he managed to swallow it down, but each time he was worried it might be the last. 

 

Dick wasn't sure how Bruce couldn't hear his breathing - the man was standing right next to him after all, and Dick had begun to breathe rather heavily in an attempt to calm his rebelling stomach. He could almost feel his guts turning and twisting up into tight knots. He wanted to lay down, sit down,  _ fall  _ down, anything that would help him keep his  _ dinner  _ down. 

 

Cold sweat began to bead at the back of his neck and slip down between his shoulder blades, collecting and adding another sickly layer to his discomfort. Dick knew he couldn't keep going like this. Childishly, he wished that he could be back home at the manor with Alfred looking after him, making him tea. He wanted to be lying in a warm safe bed with bruce’s strong arms around him, rubbing his tender stomach. 

 

He caught his cheek between his molars and bit down as more saliva pooled under his tongue. He could feel a belch rising in his chest and tried helplessly to stop it. Despite himself, he felt embarrassed. 

 

As if on cue, Bruce looked over to him, a slightly concerned glint readable through his mask. “Are you okay, Nightwing?” 

 

Dick didn't know how to answer. He wanted to be honest - he was not okay, he was feeling desperately nauseous. He just didn't know if he  _ could  _ answer. Opening his mouth was a dangerous course of action at the moment. 

 

He settled on a slight shake of the head and bracing himself to provide an in depth answer. However, he never had to. With the worst possible timing, something exploded behind them casting a thick fog around the rooftop they had been occupying. Dry laughter echoed through the smoke and Bruce’s voice came loud and clear: 

 

“ _ Move!”  _

 

_ Easier said than done.  _ Dick thought as he forced himself up from the relative comfort of his self-soothing crouched position. The sudden shift was not doing him any favors. His gut twisted and writhed beneath his hands and he couldn't hold back a moan anymore. Saliva rushed forth again - this time he couldn't swallow it. It dripped from his parted lips, slipping down his chin while he caught his breath. 

 

He was not going to vomit. Not right now. He was  _ not.  _

 

Angrily, he wiped at his chin, trying to strengthen his resolve. Something was happening now and Bruce needed him to be alert and helpful. His own body would just have to wait. Dick wasn't given much time to think about his sore insides before a punch landed square in his back. 

 

His breath rushed out of his lungs as the rooftop spun in a queasy circle under his feet. He followed it, turning himself, to lodge his fist perfectly in the jaw of his assailant. 

 

The man must not have been terribly skilled at what he was doing because the punch sent him flying to the ground, despite the obvious weakness of Dick’s attack. Dick kicked the prone man in the side as he tried to stand, determined to keep him down. He hoped Bruce would be over to him soon, hoped more men wouldn't show up. He was barely holding it together as he was. 

 

But hey if he vomited on a villain, at least maybe they could laugh about it later. 

 

Dick stepped back, bracing himself against a wall as his stomach roiled once more. Thick drool began to fill his mouth up, the taste sour, metallic. Determined, he swallowed it back, wincing as he could feel it slime it's way back down his esophagus. It was almost as though he could feel it coating his stomach like oil, trying valiantly to come back forth once again. 

 

The man in front of him attempted to make a run for it, but though sick, Dick was still faster than him. He lunged forward, a bit clumsily and caught the man’s shoulder with his heel, effectively pinning him to the gritty rooftop. Through his blurred vision, Dick recognized the man held beneath his foot as a local gang member. He was simultaneously relieved and annoyed - relieved this wasn't something bigger, annoyed that it had happened at all. 

 

“Wing! Location!” He heard Bruce shout, half through the com link in his ear and half through the echo in the air around him. He clenched his teeth, grinding his heel down as the man began to squirm, trying to will some of his discomfort onto him. 

 

_ “Here!”  _

 

Dick hoped that would be enough. He didn't trust himself to open his mouth for any more of an explanation than that. 

 

Thankfully Bruce was by his side in a few short moments. He felt rather than saw the larger man as he swooped down next to him, yanking the gang member up and allowing Dick to rock back on his heels, wrapping both arms protectively around his angry stomach. He shut his eyes tightly as Bruce tied the man up, not wanting to watch so much movement, willing himself and his insides to be still. 

 

It was a lost cause. He was in  _ agony.  _ At this point, he wanted to vomit so that maybe he would feel better. His stomach felt bloated, too full, distended. He was sure it was pressing up against his costumes in ways it usually didn't. He wanted to be home. He couldn't even remember a time when he had felt so sick outside of the confines of his own bathroom…

 

A hand on his shoulder shook him from his thoughts and caused a moan to spill forth from his lips. He couldn't bring himself to even be embarrassed anymore, just glad that a moan was all that escaped. Each exhale was a small pant, a breathy grunt, and Dick was sure he was going to die here on this stupid rooftop. 

 

“Wing, did you get hit? Are you hurt?” 

 

Dick wanted to curl up and sleep in the subtle sympathy that lined Bruce’s words. Anyone else may have missed it, but to him the words were practically dripping in it. 

 

Dick shook his head, his lips pursed tightly. He didn't get hit. He wasn't hurt, he didn't want to worry Bruce over a stomach ache and his own inability to admit when he wasn’t feeling 100%, even if he was starting to worry a bit himself. 

 

“Are you sure? Did you hit your head in the blast?” 

 

“No.” Dick choked out. “I'm not... _ ngh… _ not hurt.” 

 

Dick swayed, moving one hand from his stomach to clutch at Bruce’s wrist for balance. 

 

“Dizzy.” Bruce reported for him. “You could be concussed.” 

 

“I'm not. B. I'm-” Dick cut himself off as his stomach roiled and sweat beaded on his forehead, sticking the sides of his hair to his scalp, trickling down beneath his mask. 

 

“Are you nauseous?” 

 

Bruce saying that word -  _ nauseous -  _ was all it took. Goose bumps broke out on Dick’s forearms and a shiver ran down his spine, reverberating in his stomach. He pitched forward slightly, clenching his jaw as he felt bile prickle at the back of his throat. He was sure all the color left his face and his hands shook. He clenched one into a fist and held his knuckles against his pale lips. There was no point in lying anymore, it was going to come out one way...or another. “ _ Yes.” _

 

Almost immediately, Bruce's hands were on him. They pressed against the pulse point in his neck and felt the back of his head. Dick could tell he was still looking for an injury. Dick shook his head, dislodging his hands. They were starting to suffocate him. 

 

“Nightwing. You could have a head injury.” 

 

“I  _ don't. _ ” Dick said, adamant, his voice tight. “Been like this.” he stifled a thick sounding belch. “All day.” 

 

Dick closed his eyes again, the admission somehow lifting a weight off his shoulders. He felt Bruce’s hand against his face again, but this time in a comforting gesture. “Why didn't you say something earlier?” 

 

Dick didn't answer. He didn't know why. All he knew was that right now he felt worse than terrible. “ _ B-”  _

 

“Okay, Wing. It's okay. The GCPD are on the way, let's get you off this rooftop before they arrive.” 

 

Dick didn't feel very confident about his ability to move to a new location without losing the contents of his stomach, but Bruce seemed adamant and he was going to have to trust him. Slowly, dizzily, he tried to stand, gulping back a retch and leaning entirely on Bruce for support. Bruce took his weight gracefully, supporting him entirely as they moved from the rooftop. Dick closed his eyes and tried to breathe as normally as he could, thanking some higher power that Bruce was there to help him home. There was no way he could ride his bike back like this. 

 

Dick’s stomach gurgled again and his knees almost buckled, he would have fallen forward were it not for Bruce’s strong grip beneath his arms. He moaned, falling short at the edge of the rooftop. 

 

“B…” He gasped, clutching his stomach and swallowing almost compulsively. “I  _ can't-”  _ A dry heave burst forth and both men knew Dick didn't have long before he lost the fragile control he had on his body. 

 

Taking action, Bruce didn't hesitate before lifting Dick into his arms and springing off the rooftop. “Hold on, Dick.” 

 

Dick let himself be lifted and settled into Bruce’s arms, burying his face in Bruce’s neck to try to block out the motion around him. He felt like a child, all wrapped up in Bruce’s arms like this, and he was comforted by that. The fleeting moment of contentment faded as Bruce’s feet hit the next rooftop and nausea jolted back up through Dick’s body, saliva pooling in his mouth anew. 

 

He tore away from Bruce’s body just as his resolve fled him. Hands and knees, he began retching onto the unforgiving concrete of the rooftop. At first nothing came up except painful, deep, racking retches. Dick was sure his gags were echoing off the buildings around them, but couldn't stop even if he wanted to. His stomach gurgled, gnawed, cramped, and Dick moaned as a harsh belch wormed it's way up his throat, followed immediately by a thin stream of stomach acid.

 

Dick groaned and heaved again, this time bringing up more solids. He spat, roughly, trying to get the taste out of his mouth but more came, thick vomit pooling forth from his lips and splattering sickeningly on the concrete before him, splashing back onto the wrists of his uniform, hands splayed on either side of the puddle of sick. 

 

He whimpered again, knees protesting as his body hitched forward once more. His fingers clawed at the concrete, begging for this to be over soon. His shoulders tensed and his back muscles rippled with another heave. Another mouthful of sour liquid filled his mouth and trickled down his chin to join the rest on the ground. One final heave, vomit and thick saliva stringing from his lips to the mess on the ground, and Dick thought maybe he was empty. For now. 

 

Head spinning, ears ringing, Dick eased back. He wrapped his arms around his stomach, crouching low to the ground trying to avoid the queasy sort of pain settled there. He dry heaved once, barely even bothering to lean forward, a harsh but empty belch punctuating the end of it. 

 

“Jesus, Dick.” Bruce breathed above him. As Dick’s awareness filtered back in, he realized Bruce’s cape was wrapped around his shoulders. He brushed his hands off on his knees and clutched it tighter around himself, hoping to dispel the shivers that were beginning to radiate from his core. 

 

“ _ Bruce.”  _ Dick practically whined. He felt like a child, all bundled up in the security of the cape, exactly how it used to be when he was seven would fall asleep on a late night stake out. “I don't feel good.” 

 

Bruce rubbed a hand down Dick’s back, feeling him tremble. “I know you don't. Let's get you home and in bed. Do you think you're done here?” 

 

Dick gagged shallowly in an answer, spitting more drool onto the roof. His stomach  _ hurt  _ but it felt empty. “For now. Please take me home.” 

 

Dick was  _ miserable  _ and he knew that the ride back to the cave in the batmobile was going to be  _ hell.  _ He could barely walk, Bruce was practically carrying him and he could hardly stomach that movement. He knew this was really the only option though - he didn't want to be out all night in his Nightwing gear, vomiting off of rooftops. A groan filtered up from him at the thought, the sensory memory of getting sick still fresh. 

 

“We’re almost there, Dick.” 

 

“My bike…” Dick whispered, realizing too late that he had left his motorcycle unattended. 

 

“Already taken care of. Tim is picking it up.” 

 

Dick hummed in response, relaxing slightly as he saw the batmobile coming into view. Riding in it might be torture, but at least he could sit down. His legs were shaking so much - in fact his whole  _ body  _ was shaking. He was shivering, even under the cape. All he really wanted was several hundred blankets in a nice warm bed.  

 

Gently, carefully, Bruce set him down in the passenger seat, adjusting the cape around his shoulders. Dick tried to smile up at Bruce in gratitude but he was sure it came out more akin to a grimace. 

 

Bruce patted Dick on the shoulder before shutting the door and quickly walking around to the driver’s side. Once he was in and the engine was humming, he turned to Dick. 

 

“Let me know if you need anything. If you feel sick, I'll stop.” 

 

Dick nodded, not trusting his mouth enough to open it. His stomach was  _ cramping,  _ bubbling and gurgling. Despite just vomiting more than he thought he had ever eaten in his life, Dick still felt horribly nauseous. He took a deep breath and hoped that he would make it home in one piece. He wrapped his arms around his middle, cradling his angry stomach, wondering dully if Bruce could hear the distressed noises it was making. 

 

The batmobile was in motion and Dick closed his eyes against the inertia. He knew Bruce would drive carefully, but he certainly didn't want to watch buildings and trees going by in a dizzying swirl of color through the windows. Bruce took a turn and a new wave of nausea bloomed in Dick’s guts, filling his mouth with fresh saliva that he tried valiantly to swallow down. 

 

His throat worked against him and he almost gagged. He moaned raggedly around another cramp and Bruce was looking over at him again. 

 

“Dick?” 

 

Dick groaned again, feeling pitiful. His head was spinning but he didn't want Bruce to stop driving. He wanted nothing more than to be  _ home  _ to suffer in peace and privacy. He belched and Bruce was immediately opening a compartment in front of them. 

 

“B…’m gonna be sick.” 

 

The words were barely out of Dick’s mouth before he clapped a hand over his lips, driving them into his teeth. He heaved once, mouth filled with sour bile and tried to swallow. He gagged again on the putrid taste and vomited into his hand.

 

Bruce had positioned a small bag in his lap, thankfully catching the gush of vomit that leaked through Dick’s gloved fingers. Dick quickly grabbed the bag with both hands, holding it near to his mouth as more undigested bits of food came forth. He whimpered slightly as another retch tore through him, coughing and gagging loudly, sweating and embarrassed. 

 

“Sorry.” Dick whispered, his apology punctuated by another heave, this one mercifully empty. 

 

“It's okay, Dick. We’ll be home soon.” 

 

Dick looked up and noted that they were indeed near to the batcave. Which meant he was that much closer to comfortable pants and a warm bed. He shivered just thinking about it. He leaned forward again with the force of another retch, but nothing came up again. He spat into the bag and sat back, moaning. 

 

“Are you okay?” 

 

“Nothin’ left in me to bring up.” Dick mumbled, rubbing a hand across his own stomach. 

 

“We’ll get you some water when we get home. You need to keep hydrated.” 

 

Dick gagged again at the thought of swallowing anything, but he knew Bruce was right. He also knew Alfred wouldn't hesitate to hook him up to an IV if he didn't cooperate. 

 

A few more turns and a few more coughing retches, and the pair of them were home. Back in the blissful darkness of the cave that seemed to welcome Dick with open arms. Bruce helped him out of the batmobile, supporting most of his weight and making sure his cape stayed put around Dick’s shoulders. Dick walked numbly through the cave, only to be greeted by Alfred. The older man was standing with a pile of warm and soft looking clothes for Dick to put on, and a glass of water with some small pills next to it. Bruce must have somehow called ahead without Dick knowing. He was eternally grateful for that. He didn't think he could trust his voice enough to explain why he wasn't feeling well without his empty stomach trying to crawl up his esophagus. 

 

Dick felt exhausted down to his very bones. Usually he would have protested to being helped out of his uniform and into his other clothes, but he didn't have the energy to do it himself. It felt nice to be coddled by two sets of hands, one Alfred’s and the other Bruce’s. Alfred’s hand was cool against his forehead and he leaned into it. He heard the man  _ tsk  _ and Dick knew he must have a fever. 

 

“I need to lay down.” Dick mumbled, his eyes were shutting on their own and he couldn't keep them open. Trying to work through his illness had exhausted him and he was starting to get dizzy again. 

 

Dick didn't know exactly how much time had passed, but the next thing he knew he was being tucked into his bed. The blankets were pulled up to his chin and a waste basket was placed next to his bed, in case he couldn't make it to the bathroom when his stomach decided to rebel again, and Dick was sure it would. 

 

Dick caught onto Bruce’s wrist as he adjusted the blankets and Bruce paused to look down at him. “Stay?” Dick whispered. 

 

Bruce smiled down at the young man and nodded. He couldn't leave Dick if he needed him. Dick reached out and invited Bruce to lay in bed next to him, and Bruce obeyed. He curled himself around the ailing boy and gently rubbed his stomach until he fell asleep. 

 

Bruce listened as Dick’s breath evened out, knowing he would be here with him for the rest of the night. 

 

And that he was. He was right there when Dick awoke to vomit up the water he had drank, holding his shoulders and rubbing his back. 

 

He wasn't going anywhere. 


End file.
